


Christmas; Five Years Ago

by jamlocked



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-18
Updated: 2017-01-18
Packaged: 2018-09-18 09:27:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9378455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamlocked/pseuds/jamlocked
Summary: A Holmes sibling he doesn't hate. Family is always difficult.





	

 

 

 

 

On the flight into Sherrinford, he’d barely been able to contain his energy. On the way back, he can hardly breathe, incandescence vibrating along every nerve, burning him up in light and fire. It’s going to be a bad, bad crash, but for now it is _perfect_. 

His boys have the sense not to talk to him. He plays Bach inside his head to drown out the helicopter, and nods in time with the racing of his own heart, hammering excitedly against his ribs.

Oh, it’s a good day. It’s a good, _good_ day.

 

*

‘Redbeard.’

He tilts his head, already knowing she’ll follow. And after that neither follow, and neither lead, they’re just together. Her eyes - Sherlock’s eyes - don’t blink, don’t move from his, and this glass might as well not exist because she’s staring into him, and he’s staring into her, and he tells her _read me,_ and she tells him _see me_ , and he does and she does, and the seconds of their precious five minutes tick by and there is still no need to speak.

Their breath is fogging the glass by the time they come to rest. She says, ‘you have a brother too,’ and he nods, because yes he does, and she asks, ‘do you hate him as well?’ and he nods, and she smiles, and says, ‘you hate everyone.’

Maybe not everyone. He would count Sherlock as an exception, but maybe not because he does hate him as _well_ as whatever else he feels, which both changes with his mood and really doesn’t. Perhaps now there’s a Holmes he doesn’t hate at all. He never thought that was possible.

‘Tell me about Redbeard.’

  

*

  

His London house is blissfully silent. He floats up the stairs to his private office because there’s a view of the park, and there won’t be many people ruining it on Christmas Day. No snow in London this year, and darkness is closing in which means he’s left with a lot of empty green to look at, turned gold from rays of a red sun pushing between the clouds. He sprawls in his chair. He feels drunk. He feels high, and he _was_ high hours and hours ago but the chemicals have long since burned away, because nothing could withstand the adrenaline of those five minutes.  

‘Euros.’

He tastes the word in his mouth. God of the East Wind. It’s a satisfying name, and the sound is something he’ll forever associate with energy, just as Mycroft is ice, and Sherlock is light. Sherlock is always light, and he tries to push the thought away because it’ll spoil the natural high, bring him back down to matters which have never seemed mundane before. He wants to fly a bit longer. It’s Christmas; he can have this, can’t he?

 

*

  

‘And what do you want from me?’ he says when she’s finished, and all he can see is a tiny Sherlock running around in his pirate hat, screaming and screaming for his friend, digging under the tree until his hands bled, and then…he doesn’t know because she doesn’t know. She was gone.

‘You’re going to come out of the shadows, aren’t you?’

She never seems to blink. He likes that.

‘Mycroft likes me to solve his puzzles, predict the little bombs, catch the little people with their guns and planes. He lets me use the computers. And do you know what I saw, behind all those little people?’

‘Me.’

‘You.’

Her fingertips are on the divide. So are his. It’s not like touching, there is no warmth under their hands. The glass might melt between their eyes.

‘You’re playing with Sherlock. You want him to see you. Do you love him, Jim?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Interesting. You’ll kill the only man who could ever satisfy you. I _knew_ I’d like you. But it’s not him you want to kill, is it?’

‘He’ll have the choice. That’s why I’m here, isn’t it? You want him to live, because you want him to see you too.’

He tilts his head. She tilts hers. They both smile.

‘What does your brother do, Jim? He’s not like you.’

‘Your brothers aren’t like you.’ No one is like her, except him. ‘He’s a station master. He’s ordinary.’

Her eyes narrow, and he can feel her reading what that means; to be ordinary is terrible, the worst, and something to be envied. He knows she can see it in him, because he can see it in her. That’s why she killed little Victor. It’s why he’s going to kill himself. The world is not built for people like them. It can’t contain them; it could never be enough.

‘I know you’re not going to be boring and ask me to let Sherlock off the hook.’

‘Of course not. Just let me have him afterwards. And help me catch his interest.’ 

For a second, her face is stricken. From a kind of curious joy, there is pain so deep even he feels it. It makes him blink, and his fingertips flash white as they try to press through to her. He’s seen that look before, reflected in windows he’s looked out of on the really bad nights.

‘He’s more interested in you, Jim. He’s never once come to visit me.’

 

*

 

Empathy is an alien emotion, and one he is not capable of feeling. It was recognition, that’s all. That pain, the agony of never being seen. It burns up his throat even now, a fire he can never swallow down. The only thing that calms it these days is the knowledge that it’s nearly over; that Sherlock knows he exists and it’s only a matter of time before the world does too. And then he will destroy himself forever, and it’ll be like he never was. The promise of peace lets him breathe, and keeps him from raging out of control. He won’t let temper ruin it, this close to the end. There’s only a few months left.

He turns his head at the sound of a phone, and smiles. Euros smiles in his mind’s eye. It’s a phone he charges once a year on Christmas Eve, for the pleasure of watching as it rings and rings and then cuts off, leaving only a name on the screen. He’d been looking forward to it until this morning, his annual reminder of just how unlike anyone else he really is. But he got his shot of that in a fortress cell today, so just for the hell of it he picks up the phone. A video call, even. He routes it through his computer, taking his time because it rings and rings, this call, it always does. Hope practically radiates through the screen.

‘Davy.’

‘…Jimmy.’

His brother blinks. Jim’s euphoria dies a little. Contact with ordinary people always brings him down.

‘Merry Christmas. Sorry, I wasn’t expecting you to answer.’

Jim scans the face. He’s seen it in the odd surveillance photo, because of course he keeps tabs on the family in case someone uses them to get to him. But it’s different in a live shot, not unlike looking in a mirror except James David is two years older, a bit taller, more lined, more weathered, with no sense whatsoever of personal grooming. His accent is overlaid with the rounded vowels of West Country English, and Jim would quite like to take a knife to his voice box to get them out.

He thinks of Euros, wishing her family loved her. In that, at least, they differ.

‘You caught me in a whimsical mood.’

‘I see.’ And just like that, Older Brother is doubtful, and wary, and probably wishing he hadn’t phoned at all. He always thought it was safer to just leave little Jimmy alone, but then, he was the only one who had an inkling of what little Jimmy was really like. ‘How are you?’

‘Thriving, dearest brother.’ He enunciates each syllable of _thriving_ , knowing that Davy will see the suit, and the tan, and the hair, and try not wonder too deeply what he does to afford it all. ‘And how’s the _family_?’

‘They’re fine. Jill’s a headteacher now. The kids are-‘

Davy falters, no doubt off his look. Does he care how they’re doing? He does not. But he smiles anyway, too bright, thinking of Euros and how her eyes had widened just a little in excitement, asking him about Sherlock.

‘Any of them showing an aptitude for maths?’

‘Uh…no. Still no. Sorry. I think we’d know by now if any of them were going to be like you.’

They stare into each others’ eyes, down two hundred miles and thirty-five years of distance, separated by something that can never be breached. 

‘I don’t think they believe they have an uncle. You could come and visit. We have a spare room.’

He almost laughs. The image is so incongruous as to almost be a genuine surprise. ‘Show them pictures if they want proof.’

‘I’m not sure I have any. Didn’t you destroy them all?’

Of course he had. He shrugs. Davy licks his lip and glances away, no doubt off some child-related distraction in another room. Jim tilts his head, and watches. This could have been him, if the vagaries of genes had been kind. Or cruel. He can never quite decide which it was.

‘So, what’re you up to? Still in the City? Banking, wasn’t it?’

‘No.’

‘Oh. I’ve been telling everyone it was banking. Or computers.’

Older Brother has always been good at making up stories that must surely explain what Little Brother does to get his money. Strange, he never seems to connect it with the hints of conversation they had as teenagers, that went something like, _Mrs Brown’s dog was killed, did you see anything? You went out last night, didn’t you, Jimmy?_ and _Father McGuire’s been in an accident. You didn’t…well, at least you won’t have to take his confirmation class any more, right Jimmy?_  

Jim taps his fingers on the top of his desk. The chopper was going back to pick Mycroft up. He wonders whether he’ll go to his parent’s house, or if he’ll just come home and drink. Poor, poor Mycroft.

‘’Computers’ is closer.’

‘Right.’

They stare at each other through the screen. Jim wonders whether, should he put his fingers up to touch it, he’d feel anything. Whether his brother would touch back.

‘Not married yet, then?’

‘No, not married. Still going to Hell for my unnatural desires.’

Davy sighs then, and shakes his head. ‘I’m not Ma, Jimmy. Don’t talk to me like I am. Anyway, I know you’ve had girlfriends. I met them.’

Strange, isn’t it? You can not speak to family for three years, and it’s still perfectly normal for them to bring up your teenage sex life. He wonders whether Euros will ask such a thing of Sherlock, should she ever meet him. He wonders what the answer would be.

‘Why do you call, Davy?’

‘…it’s Christmas. Supposed to be about family.’

‘Is that what we are?’

Davy stares at him, lost. Jim tilts his head, but his brother stays perfectly still. If you look into his eyes, you can see the cogs turning slowly, so slowly; you can practically hear the gears grinding together. Jim goes back to the cell and floats there, watching himself fly. A mind as unfettered as his own, blazing through space, unbound by anything except the world determined to chain them down and tell them they’re broken.

‘Maybe not. I don’t know. Ma told me-‘

‘-it was your Christian duty. Consider it done. This is boring.’

‘You think everything’s boring.’

‘You’re right, I do. Because it is. Bye, Davy.’

‘…bye, Jimmy. Talk next year.’

‘Doubt it.’

He hits a button and ends the call, Davy’s face frozen in a moment of hurt. Or annoyance. Both, or neither, it hardly matters. Jim swivels his chair to face the window, and look out over the park. It’s almost fully dark, and his own reflection stares back. It’s nothing he hasn’t seen a million times before. Great suit, great hair, no expression on his face. Nothing to give away what lies beneath.

  

*

  

‘Tell me about Sherlock.’

Her eyes are alive. He knows his are too, because everything comes alive when he thinks about Sherlock.

‘He’s the stupidest of the three of you.’

‘That’s not why you like him.’

‘No. I like him because Mycroft has tried so hard to make him ice, and he’s still all fire. You know that. He’s so fun to play with. He doesn’t even know how soft he is.’

‘You could play with Mycroft. If you did that, you’d break the country. Wouldn’t that be fun?’

‘Not as satisfying.’

‘Not as personal. Mycroft would never see you the way Sherlock would. I broke that out of him, didn’t I? He’s always felt sooooooo responsible, keeping me here, keeping Sherlock safe. Typical older brother. Tell me something about him.’

He could be kind, here. Jim knows what kindness is, he can parody it to perfection when he’s playing a part, manipulating someone to get what he wants. But he won’t be kind to Euros, because he is not going to be her puppet. She may not even realise she’s been trying to get into his head, because they are so obviously alike, she already is. But he’s in hers too, and he’s about to be more.

‘He has a new best friend.’

He watches the pain flash into her eyes. Her lip twitches. Her fingers almost jerk away from the glass but he tilts his head, his own gaze soft, and she follows him and calms under the movement.

‘Tell me about them.’

‘His name’s John Watson. He’s a doctor. They share a flat, and solve crimes together. John writes a blog, and follows him around all day long. They’re practically inseparable.’

Her eyes are moist. He leans in so close, his lips almost touch the divide.

‘Don’t _worry_ , Euros. I’m going to spilt them up. For a long time.’

‘But then you’ll be gone.’ She leans too, not quite crying but almost. Jim isn’t sure the tears are real, but the agony is right there to be wallowed in. ‘They’ll come back together, if they’re inseparable.’

‘Then they’ll be all yours.’

‘Would Sherlock kill him to save Mycroft?’

‘Never. But he’d kill himself to save either.’

This is a theory, and one Jim intends to test very soon. It’ll cost him his own life but that’s okay. He’s been sick of it for as long as he can remember.

 

*

  

There’s a family walking though the park. Not an ideal family, not two parents and one-of-each kids, leaping happily around with a dog, or new bikes, or whatever it is people do on walks through the park. A man in an anorak and beanie hat, smoking a roll-up, a too-thin woman with awful skin, no doubt a junkie. Two older children without coats, staring at phones as they walk. And one little toddler holding its mother’s hand, a little puff of blue in its winter jacket and jeans, the only dash of colour in a depressing scene. Jim stares at it as they all stop under a streetlight and the adults exchange words, arguing about which way to go. Maybe they’re lost, maybe he wants to go to the pub. The older kids don’t bat an eyelid. The toddler looks like he’s about to cry, but Jim watches him look between his parents with an open mouth, his forehead crinkling…and then he seems to decide there’s no point. His brow smooths, his mouth closes. He looks at the ground instead.

Jim blinks at him, the last of his good mood slipping away. _You and me both, kid,_ he thinks, and gets up to pour a whiskey.

  

*

 

They’re into their last seconds. Yes, he will record a tape that makes it look like he’s still alive. It’ll be used if there’s a crisis, and it seems like Sherlock is leaving. If he survives at all, of course. Euros is too clever to ask him not to see the plan through, so there’s a chance Sherlock won’t make it. They both know what lengths he’ll go to for other people.

‘How long will he be gone for, if he finds a way out?’

‘Impossible to say. But he’ll be after my web, so you’ll be able to follow him. Watch his progress, and you'll see him come back. You can monitor everything, he’ll be famous.’

‘And won’t that hurt, Jim? If you don’t destroy him as fully as you want to?’

Interesting that she’d decide to try and hurt him with that. Perhaps its payback for telling her about Watson. She smiles, not in the least bit contrite, and he smiles too because at least she gets it.

‘You’re employing him to destroy _you_. I think you want him to survive.’

‘Let’s just say I don’t care either way. But it’s nice knowing he’ll see my face again.’

‘You know you’re in his head.’

‘And you will be too. I promise.’

‘You promise?’

‘I promise.’

 

*

 

Jim switches off the lights, and takes his whiskey back to the window. There’s no one out there now. Nothing but darkness, silence, peace. It’s good. He leans his forehead on the glass, and listens to Bach in his head. Unlike some people, he understands it perfectly.

‘Jim?’

He sees himself reflected in her window as he stops, and looks back. The cameras are back on, but that’s fine.

‘You will enjoy it, won’t you?’

He had smiled. He smiles now. Yes, of course he’ll enjoy it. One last game, and won’t it be _fun_. But while Euros’s lips are stretched, her eyes are stricken again.

‘This could have been you, you know.’

He glances around the cell. He thinks of Davy and his phone calls, the echoes of silence between his parents and brother as they stared at him, and didn’t know what to do. The mutters about doctors, maybe, and the way it all got swept under the rug in the end. The way they left him alone because they didn’t know what else to do, and he was glad, he was free, until he realised that everyone, ever, was always going to leave him alone because there wasn’t a person in the world who could come and play with him. Until Sherlock. Until it was far, far too late.

‘I know.’

Dear God, he knows. She’s had it worse, but dear God, he knows.

‘He won’t let you down.’

She hesitates. Jim mouths the words in the silence of his house.

‘Promise?’

‘Promise.’

 

 

 


End file.
